


The New Breed

by MajorSteed



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Beast Machines, Transformers: Beast Wars
Genre: Action/Adventure, Comedy, Dystopia, Gen, Post-Beast Wars, Retelling, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-17 10:36:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11273724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajorSteed/pseuds/MajorSteed
Summary: A significantly different retelling of the 1999 Beast Machines animated series, set on a Cybertron that is not devoid of life, but remains under the control of the mad tyrant Megatron. Optimus Primal and his Maximals struggle to master strange new forms that may turn the tide in the fight against their Vehicon oppressors, while also exploring the mysteries of the Transmetal driver, and the myths and legends of their forgotten legacy. Old enemies join forces, and dark secrets are unearthed as the battle for the fate of the planet rages anew.





	1. Do the Evolution (1)

 

* * *

* * *

  **THE NEW BREED**

 

**Do the Evolution (1)**

* * *

* * *

  

**I.**

 

The sky was the colour of dull steel. Chemical rainclouds swirled in the sky above austere, monolithic spires, a compliment to the grim mood that pervaded Trion Square. Citizens gathered around a platform mounted on stilts, or else congregated on balconies to watch the huge, holographic screens suspended on the central complexes, which portrayed the scene occurring almost a mile below. Their collective faces were a pallid blend of misery, despair, and hopelessness. Street activity had ground to a halt for the ceremony, even the overhead monorails had been rescheduled, in order to maximise public attendance. The whole world was plunged into eerie silence, broken only by the voice of the adjudicator, who addressed the two prisoners standing at the gallows. Lawful assemblies of this size were rare, which meant only one thing: the execution of resistance fighters.

          The adjudicator, a grizzled mechanoid with a voice like cracking ice, and probably old enough to recall the last days of the Great War, stepped up onto the platform. His black robe obscured most of his shape, but the accused could see the faint, emerald glow of optic sensors beneath his hood. He presented a metal cylinder, which he unlocked to reveal a holographic scroll, and began to read. Although he went about his duty without issue, he sounded weary, and to the condemned, his posture and expression signified regret.

          “You have both been found guilty of high treason against the Lord High Protector of Cybertron,” he said, “of inciting disharmony and dissent, theft and grand larceny, destruction of government property, violence against law enforcement operatives, resisting arrest, spreading falsehoods about the office of the Lord High Protector, possession of illegal devices, including live ordnance, failure to pay tax, flying in a no-fly zone, and use of bad language in a public setting. The High Court finds it has no choice but to levy the ultimate penalty against the accused, Rhinox and Silverbolt.”

          Rhinox and Silverbolt, once considered heroes by their peers, said nothing in their defence. At first, they had struggled at their energy shackles, but now they were deathly stoic. Rhinox’s lips parted slightly, baring two rows of square, chrome teeth, as if the multiple mentions of the planet’s new ruler were an insult to him. Given their history, perhaps that was exactly the case. The sudden death of the entire Maximal Council of Elders had been more than enough to throw the populace into mayhem. Megatron’s rise to supreme power and restructuring of the political hierarchy during the aftermath had pushed him and others clear over the edge, leading to a steady outbreak of civil disobedience. Democracy and the Elders were obsolete concepts. Cybertron had become a dictatorship.

          “That is,” the adjudicator continued, “unless you submit yourselves willingly to the mercy and service of the state until such time as the office of the Lord High Protector decides you have paid your dues to society. I must advice you that this list of charges ensures that will be a considerable period, but it is preferable to the alternative.”

          Rhinox growled. “Tell the ‘Lord High Protector’ he can get slagged.” He spat out the title like a piece of especially crude oil.

          The adjudicator stifled a disappointed sigh. “Then I am left with no choice but—”

          “Wait!” cried Silverbolt. Somewhere in the crowd, a fembot felt her bionic muscles tense nervously. “Do I have the right to final words?”

          “You have that right,” said the adjudicator, not unkindly. “Please, say your piece.”

          “I thank you,” said Silverbolt, and turned his gaze out towards the crowd, who held their collective breath as they watched and waited. The handsome warrior, doomed as he may have been, was a shining spectacle of courage and dignity. Even with all the charges against him, it would be easy to believe he was as squeaky clean as his armour plating suggested.

          “Do not be deterred by our deaths, my friends,” he declared, and his deep, rich voice carried across the square. “Let the resistance show solidarity in these dark times, and do honour to our names by moving forward without trepidation! Let Maximal and Predacon come together as brothers, and I promise you, the day will soon come when Megatron falls! We will never surrender! We will come together and light our darkest hour! Till all are one!”

          There was no response from the crowd. Silverbolt had not expected one. Anyone who spoke up would only have only been rounded up and placed in their position next, but he knew that among so many, his words would reach at least a few who mattered. He bowed his head, and awaited what came next.

          “I hope you’re right,” the adjudicator said quietly as he moved past them towards the steps. “For the record, I am so, so sorry for this.”

          “We don’t hold it against you,” said Rhinox, though something in his tone said otherwise. The adjudicator would spend many a haunted sleep-cycle hearing that voice in his dreams. Once he had stood for fairness. Now he was little more than a death omen. He got down off the platform and gestured towards the executioner, a hefty, barrel-chested robot with a flat, silver head and feet terminating in caterpillar tracks. It carried a cruel-looking device comprised of a transparent globe connected to a set of thin, flexible claws, between which thin arcs of bluish energy jumped and danced.

          “See you on the other side,” said Rhinox.

          The drone levelled the extractor on Silverbolt first. With the push of a switch, the claws flexed wide apart, pouring their debilitating energy into the Maximal’s breastplate. Silverbolt went stiff with pain, but he bit back the urge to cry out. He refused to give the executioner the satisfaction, not that he was sure it was even capable of such an emotion. In the crowd, the fembot wanted more than anything to turn away or run to him, but she maintained her silence. The effort would only be wasted. The extractor gave an audible whine, and sucked a shimmering mass of crystallised energy from its host, sealing it inside the globe. The now mindless shell that was Silverbolt sank to its knees.

          The scowl never left Rhinox’s broad, green face when his turn came. A million plans raced through his central processor, each no doubt as brilliant as the last, but there were none that could avail him now. As the life left his own body, he thought of something he had once said to a good friend on another, distant world. _“When a Spark comes online, there is great joy. When one is extinguished, the universe weeps.”_ He wondered, just before the lights went out, what happened when one was caged.

          “It is done,” said the adjudicator, and turned to the crowd. “This lawful assembly is concluded. Please disperse, and allow their empty shells to be properly disposed of.”

          A big hand gently grasped the fembot’s shoulder and steered her away, towards a dark alleyway. It would take a while before normal activity resumed in the square. The drones tasked with removing the remains of the executed criminals went about their work without a word. Nobody else conversed as they left, so to anyone who happened to be watching from on high, the city might have appeared utterly abandoned. Anyone like the lone figure nestled at the heart of a nightmarish cluster of machinery, illuminated only by the batches of monitors and tubes. Linked directly to the network of orbiting perimeter satellites, Megatron saw everything.

          The Lord High Protector swept his good hand over one of the multitudinous scanners, as targeting reticules appeared over images of the retreating civilians.

          “I know you’re hiding down there somewhere, aggravating agitators,” he said. “Yes! For nearly three deca-cycles you’ve forced me to search every sewer, maintenance tunnel, and abandoned forge for you. In the end, all I needed to do to draw you into the open was put your friends on primetime.” He chuckled. “Computer, run datatrax Alduin and scan for pre-programmed energy signatures.”

          “Scanning,” replied the digitised voice of the citadel’s interface. “Four Maximal energy signatures detected.”

          Megatron shook his fist triumphantly, and opened a communications channel to his chief of police. “Excellent. This is the Lord High Protector calling Thrust. Engage enforcer-drone squadron gamma and converge near these coordinates.” He leaned back in his throne, a smug grin curling on his lips. “Sometimes it’s good to be me.”

 

* * *

 

**II.**

 

“We should’ve done something!” Cheetor growled. “How could we just stand by and let that happen?”

          “It was too risky,” responded the much larger figure at his side. “We can’t guarantee Megatron’s drones won’t open fire in a crowded place, and besides that, we’re too badly outnumbered.”

          Cheetor visibly deflated, pointed ears flopping miserably. “You’re probably right, Bigbot,” he said in resigned sort of way, “but it sure fries my circuits letting Megatron win.”

          “He hasn’t won yet, Cheetor,” said ‘Bigbot,’ a mobile mountain of blue and orange steel who was looking somewhat more scuffed and dented than he had in his glory days. “We cannot fight this war the way we did on Earth. Charging in with all lasers blazing just isn’t possible. We’ll get our friends back, but we have to be patient.”

          Cheetor wrung his fists in barely constrained anger. “It just isn’t fair! We won that war! We stopped Megatron dead in his tracks, so how come that tin-plated jerk-o-matic runs the planet while we’re scurrying around in the dark like rats?”

          “Hey! I resemble that remark!” a third voice chimed in. This one came from a small, silver Maximal walking at his own leisurely pace just behind the other two. His voice was afflicted with the most appalling lower east sector accent. “Lemme tell you somethin’, Spots, you should never knock a rat’s lifestyle until you’ve seen the payoff, know what I’m sayin’?”

          “Not really,” Cheetor said. “What’s so good about it?”

          Rattrap gave him a self-assured smirk. “We’re still alive, ain’t we?”

          Cheetor returned with a noncommittal shrug. “Guess I can’t argue with that, but try telling that to Silverbolt or Rhinox—” He gestured up ahead, “—or her.”

          The ‘her’ he was referring to was the final member of their party, a slinky, long-legged fembot walking several feet ahead of them. Blackarachnia’s relationship with Silverbolt had been legendarily turbulent, to the point where some days it was impossible to tell whether it was genuine romance or a vendetta. Despite the fact she had proved herself on many occasions during the conflict on Earth, Rattrap never felt comfortable in her presence. He was certainly not comfortable with the thought of telling her anything in regards to her old flame short of a declaration of war. Blackarachnia was a real piece of work when she was merely annoyed. He did not want to find out what she might do to him now she was actually angry.

          “Eh, maybe some other time,” he said, and waved a hand dismissively. He changed the subject. “Anyways, ah, the place me an’ Optimus scoped out is—” He paused to think, then pointed down one of the many side-alleys that dotted this labyrinthine stretch of Old Iacon. “—just a few more microquads this-a-way.”

          “You’re sure about that, Rattrap?” asked Cheetor.

          Rattrap scoffed and pointed to his own face. “Abso-posi-lutely. Trust me, kid, the nose knows. Still, it was a pretty lucky find, I’ll admit. Ask me, I doubt Megabutt even knows it exists.”

          The huge, garishly-coloured form of Optimus Primal lurched forward. “We’d better hurry before that changes.” Rattrap followed next, still chattering away, only now he had gotten onto how much he missed a certain welcoming old oil house downtown. Cheetor hesitated, then turned towards Blackarachnia, who had stopped up ahead. She had shifted into her beast mode, an unsettlingly large black widow spider with gold, serrated mandibles and reflective, dark red fur patterns along the length of her abdomen.

          “Hey, what’s got your servos seized up?” he asked. Blackarachnia glared at him through narrow, scarlet optics.

          “Don’t you hear it?” she asked in a hushed voice.

          Cheetor perked his ears up. He _could_ hear it, a distant, droning roar of thunder. It was the sound of engines, not too far out, a few kliks if he had to make a guess. Then something else, heavy footfalls approaching rapidly from behind. He felt relieved once he realised the latter was courtesy of Optimus and Rattrap, no doubt wondering why their two younger comrades had not deigned to come after them.

          “Heads up, we’ve got Vehicon drones incoming,” he explained urgently.

          “We need to prevent them from finding the entranceway,” said Optimus. “I have an idea. Rattrap, you know the area best. Take Cheetor with you. Speed will be key.”

          “What’ve you got in mind, Boss Monkey?” Rattrap asked.

 

Deep in the twisting, turning backstreets, Megatron’s chief of police led a phalanx of motorcycle units in dogged pursuit. Thrust’s scanning array searched high and low for the right energy signatures, cross-referencing them against the coordinates he had programmed into his high-res satellite imaging system. He had already sent gamma-two and gamma-three off to cover a wider area in case their quarry tried anything clever, while he remained at the head of gamma-one. Thrust had been in charge of hunting down renegade Maximal resistance cells practically since the day he came online. It was hard-wired into him. Nothing could hide from him.

          He could see two of them up ahead already. The rodent and the feline, one riding on the other’s back. _Good._ That meant he only had to aim at one spot once he was in range. With a mental command, machine gun barrels unfolded from above his front fender, as his targeting system overlaid his optical matrix.

          “All units, priority-one targets dead ahead,” he said. “Shoot to kill.”

          The cat, a freakish amalgamation of Cybertronian superstructure, organic tissue, and who-knew-what else, sped around the next bend into the yard behind a repair shop. With a leap, its clawed feet landed on a dumpster. Half a nanoklik later, it had kicked off and made contact with the opposing surface. This lightning-fast performance carried it further and still further into the air, until it was running along the tops of the walls. Thrust may have lacked Cheetor’s impressive agility, but he could at least keep pace with sheer speed.

          “You’re fast, pussycat,” he said, “but not fast enough to beat me.” He swivelled his guns, as did the rest of his squad, and the atmosphere was split by an audio sensor-piercing hail of laser bolts.

          The cat deftly avoided everything, but not by far. That was just fine with Thrust. Finding them had taken little effort. The least they could do to make up for his disappointment was keep things interesting. The cat banked around another sharp turn, then a second, and a third, and a fourth. Thrust checked his S.I.S. again.

          “You want to play games by leading me and my boys in a big old circle, huh, Maximal?” he pondered aloud. “That’s fine with me!”

          Before he had the chance to unleash a follow-up salvo, another projectile crashed into the fleeing Maximals instead.

 

“Optimus sure is takin’ his sweet time wit’ that signal,” Rattrap complained. “Not that I’m worried, it’s just that we got about a dozen Vehicons spittin’ fiery slag up our afterburners!”

          “Quit glitching, rat-face,” Cheetor shot back, “and would you quit digging your claws into my fur?” He let out a shrill yelp.

          “What is it?” Rattrap felt his nervous circuits standing at attention.

          Cheetor spat melodramatically. “Just got a bug in my mouth! Look, you just leave staying ahead of the motorheads to me, while you do your job and navigate!”

          “Spots, I don’t know if it’s just puberty hittin’ you like a space freighter, but you’ve been gettin’ a serious attitude malfunction ever since we—” Rattrap never finished the accusation, as something came swooping in from the left and ploughed into them with the force of a fusion beam, sending both Maximals and their assailant hurtling into the next street. They bounced twice off the walls, cartwheeled along the ground in a shower of white hot friction, before skidding to a halt in a tangled pile of limbs.

          Rattrap was the first on his feet, switching to robot mode and drawing his laser blaster. He whirled on Cheetor. “You all right there, kid?”

          Cheetor shook his head dizzily. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he said, “but did anybody get the number of that—” His jaw fell open, “—No slagging way.”

          Both Maximals stared, optics wide, at the thing they had collided with just moments prior. It was large and blackish-green, with spindly legs, a round head, and huge, segmented eyes. Trailing behind its main bulk was a fat, yellow-striped abdomen. Waspinator stood up groggily on six quivering legs, a buzzing whine emanating from deep in his throat. Cheetor transformed and pulled his own weapon, levelling it on the Predacon warrior. That seemed enough to bring Waspinator out of his daze. He raised his forelimbs defensively.

          “No! Pleazzzze not shoot Wazzzzpinator!” he squawked. “Wazzzzpinator not mean to crash into cat-bot and—wait, cat-bot and rat-bot? What you doing here?”

          “We could ask you the same thing, bug-eyes,” said Rattrap. “Last I heard, you was still roughin’ it down on prehistoric Earth.”

          “Wazzzzpinator can explain everything!” the Predacon crowed frantically.

          “It’ll have to wait!” Cheetor interrupted. “Six bogeys inbound!”

          “Maybe I can buy us a few kliks! Go back to beast mode an’ get ready to hightail it outta here!” Rattrap sheathed his blaster, and with a flick of his wrist, popped open the hidden compartment in his forearm. He pulled out two small adhesive charges, the only ones he had left, and chucked them at the surfaces on either side of the adjacent walkway. Changing back to his smaller rodent form, he returned to his perch on Cheetor’s shoulders. “Mush!”

          Waspinator spluttered and gaped at the approaching drones, then he realised the countdown on Rattrap’s bombs was already down to three nanos. Very much inclined not to be blown to smithereens for once in his miserable life, he chased after the two Maximals. “Wait for Wazzzzpinator!”

          The charges went off with a deafening boom, pouring an avalanche of rubble over the walkway. Vehicon motorcycles slammed one after another into the scree, but Thrust easily cleared the obstacle by popping his front tyre up and using his scrapped subordinates as a ramp. The five remaining drones in gamma-one followed close behind, all peppering the street with rapid-fire. Holding onto Cheetor’s neck for dear life, Rattrap tried to raise the rest of his team.

          “Rattrap to Optimus! Hope you an’ Eight-Legs are ready, ’cause we’re about to be flash fried by trigger-happy super-cops!”

          “Copy that, Rattrap,” piped the response. “Tell Cheetor to meet us at vector one-four-eight. Hurry!”

          Cheetor had been using the higher ground to avoid falling victim to the pratfall his teammates were pulling together, but he was too exposed to attempt another jump. More than that, he was actually moving a little under his top speed because of the extra weight, and Waspinator flitting about in a panic was making it difficult to properly gauge what the enemy was about to do next. The best he could do was heed the advice Rattrap was shrieking in his ears and pump his servos for all they were worth.

          He was rocketing towards an arched gate that led to a thoroughfare. A brilliant flash of electric blue overwhelmed his visual sensors. Cheetor flattened himself out, sending Rattrap rolling nosecone over tailpipes. He slipped beneath the light, drifted, rolled over onto his side and came to a stop in front of Optimus’s feet. He gave a half-dazed salute, then transformed once more and stood up beside Rattrap. They could see Blackarachnia suspended halfway up one of the walls. She had covered every available surface in webs of hyper-energetic silk, and before any of the Vehicons knew what was happening, they became little more than five snared, turbo-charged flies—and one Predacon Hymenoptera.

          Optimus and Blackarachnia reacted both appropriately and simultaneously. “Is that Waspinator?”

          Rattrap did a headcount. “Hold up, where’s—?”

          A gravel-gutted snarl erupted seconds before the final, missing Vehicon swerved into the centre of the thoroughfare. “Thrust, overdrive!” The chief of police spun about in circles, igniting a ring of flames around himself as he transformed from motorcycle to battle-ready robot. Slender, black limbs, widening towards the elbows and ankles, extended from a sleek, maroon-and-danger yellow trunk. Studded tyres carried him forward, and powerful hydraulic claws snapped at the ends of omnidirectional rotating wrists. Although his manufacturing was more complex than the drones under his command, he enjoyed the same simplistic, yet streamlined design aesthetic.

          “Well, ain’t this just cosy?” he sneered. “Four Maxie fugitives, and a Pred hoodlum out before he’s served his time.”

          Waspinator protested as he tried to peel himself free from the web. “Wazzzzpinator not hoodlum! Wazzzzpinator izzzz just passing disappearium salezzzzman! Look away for just a second and Wazzzzpinator show how well it works!”

          Thrust chuckled darkly. “Lord Megatron’s gonna be pleased once he sees my report. I might even get myself a nice new benefits package.”

          Optimus drew himself up to his full height. Let it be known that the term ‘great ape’ would be insufficient to describe the sheer physical power he exuded. He dropped into a defensive stance, fists at the ready. “Afraid your award ceremony’s going to have to wait. Move it, Maximals, We’ll rendezvous after I take care of business.”

          The claws on Thrust’s right hand snapped wide open, and with a pressurised whine, fired out on the end of a long chain, which wrapped itself around Optimus’s left wrist. He fired up his tyres in reverse, sharply tugging until Optimus toppled forward. The Maximal leader was putting up no struggle. The moment Thrust thought he had subdued the giant mechanoid, Optimus began to transform, replacing his gorilla mode with that of an aerospace fighter craft. Vertical take-off boosters flared to life, propelling him into the air. Thrust felt the ground falling away beneath his wheels before he actually dared to look down.

          While Optimus took to the skies with his unwilling passenger, Rattrap began leading Cheetor and Blackarachnia back towards the entrance of the new hideout, or at least he would have, if not for one last sudden plea from Waspinator. Since leaving him up there like an iron butterfly would only attract more unwanted attention, they cut him down and begrudgingly agreed to take him along, after making sure he understood clearly that any funny business on his part would result in Rattrap starting a new Pred Parts Collection.

          “So how exactly did you make it back?” asked Cheetor after they had been walking awhile.

          “Izzzz a long and painful story,” the Predacon replied, “filled with calamity and woe for poor Wazzzzpinator—”

          Cheetor loosed an exasperated sound somewhere between a sigh and a snarl. Waspinator evidently got the point, because he cut to the chase.

 

* * *

 

**III.**

 

In the final days of the Beast Wars, with the Predacon basecamp destroyed by alien intervention and the annihilation of his allies, Megatron had still managed a last, desperate move towards ultimate power. Motivated by the allure of destiny, or perhaps warped by his meddling with forces far beyond his comprehension, he had promptly forsaken the followers he had spent so much time and effort to bring to his side.

          Scorponok and Terrorsaur were the first ones to go, both of them taking a one-way nosedive into a boiling lake of lava. Scorponok’s general incompetence and Terrorsaur’s repeated attempts to usurp his leader guaranteed they would go without being missed or mourned, except perhaps by Waspinator himself. He and Scorponok had been recruited from the same cruddy spaceport in the greasy sub-levels of Polyhex. His relationship with Terrorsaur had been less amicable, but there was an unspoken oath between fliers, a sort of instinctual holdover from the days when Decepticons filled the skies, so he had respected the pterodactyl warrior, if not liked him.

          Of course, Terrorsaur had nothing on Tarantulas when it came to backstabbing. Nobody was exactly sure what events had transpired to reduce the gifted yet sadistic science officer to so much scrap iron, but there was no arguing with the remains they had dug out of his lair. In the end, despite his treachery, Tarantulas had been the one who served Megatron the best, being the one responsible for finding the warship _Nemesis_ deep beneath the ocean. The goliath Rampage had fallen in battle defending that very same vessel. Waspinator was never too broken up about losing either of them. He had no idea what had happened to Dinobot, Megatron’s experiment in abject depravity, but he assumed he had probably died as well.

          He had been rather more concerned with his own problems at that point. Megatron had sent him, along with his two favourite morons, on a pointless mission to find a replacement for their lost base. Inferno and Quickstrike were both eager to evict a tribe of early humans from their caves by force, but after three years of being slammed, singed, kinked, cracked, frazzled, flattened, and having every major mechanism replaced at least three times, Waspinator’s patience had finally run out. He had told them in no uncertain terms that the big boss could take his schemes and jump the nearest spacebridge to nowhere. His erstwhile colleagues had left him to pick up the pieces of his broken backside, and then gone off on their own.

          Maybe, just maybe that one time, being the universe’s whipping boy had actually saved his life, because last he checked, the primitive humans had been using pieces of Inferno and Quickstrike’s charred carcasses as fashionable dinnerware and the odd party favour. That was when things really turned around for him. Worshipped as a living deity by the early anthropoids, Waspinator was, in his own words, “Happy at last.” He eventually learned, however, there could be too much of a good thing. Being waited on hand and foot, never having to do anything for himself, got boring. He would spend his days languishing in his throne, and during the night go wandering off just to prevent his joints from atrophying. It was on one of those little excursions that his old bad luck returned.

          A transwarp cruiser from Cybertron arrived to collect what anachronistic Transformer influence had been left behind. Waspinator was marched aboard, and returned to Iacon in the present, where he attended a very brief hearing and was placed in a stasis cell until further notice. He had heard that the examination of Megatron’s case had been taken charge of by no less than the Tripredacus Council themselves, so he had been happy to bide his time for his own appeal. Only, the appeal never came, and by the time Waspinator was released from his bonds, it was because the systems that kept him inactive had been suddenly deactivated. The violent _coup d’état_ had begun at the heart of Iacon. Waspinator soon learned that his being sprung was merely collateral damage, and nobody bothered to take him off the list of active lawbreakers.

 

“And that why Wazzzzpinator here with Maximalzzzz,” he finished.

          “Wow. So, Megs just left you on the most wanted list, huh?” said Cheetor sympathetically. “That’s some cold, hard slag.”

          “Yeah, yeah, cry me a river,” said Rattrap, snorting derisively. “Give me one good reason we shouldn’t load this Pred into the world’s biggest slingshot an’ fire him halfway to Polyhex. He’d never lead the Vehicons to us that way.”

          Waspinator dropped to his knees and put his hands together. “Pleazzzze not leave Wazzzzpinator high and dry!” he pleaded. “Wazzzzpinator hazzzz nowhere to go! Wazzzzpinator’s future prospects not looking good right now!”

          “C’mon, Rattrap,” said Cheetor. “It’s not like he’s a threat to us. I mean this is Waspinator we’re talking about, uh, no offence.”

          By now Waspinator was curled up on the floor in a quivering lump.

          Rattrap grimaced. “Aw, for bootin’ up cold! I can’t stand to see a grown ’bot cry.” He glanced over at Blackarachnia, who glowered scathingly in return. “And I guess you wouldn’t be the first bugly to change channels.” Waspinator burst into an outpouring of gratitude, kissing Rattrap’s feet until he was physically forced away. “You get once chance, frag-features, and that’s only so’s you quit blubberin’! _Don’t_ mess it up!”

          “Wazzzzpinator will be on best behaviour!” the Predacon clapped his hands like an exuberant human child. “Ooh! Happy day!”

          Rattrap hissed angrily. “And for the love of gouda, put a lid on it, will youse?”

          Waspinator nodded. “So, uh, where we going?” he asked, in a much lower voice.

          “New hideout,” said Cheetor. “We’ve been moving from place to place for a while now. Rattrap thinks he and Optimus found somewhere more permanent. Has its own power generators, so it’s off the city’s energon grid, and it’s got shield plating so it can’t be scanned from the surface.”

          “Nice, just tell the Predacon everything, why don’t you?” Blackarachnia sniped.

          “Hey, give the guy a break,” said Cheetor admonishingly, “and remember, you were a Pred once, too.”

          Blackarachnia huffed, lunged onto the wall beside them and put on extra speed. “It’s still a long walk back,” she said haughtily, “so try to keep up.”

          Waspinator watched her go, and looked aside at Cheetor and Rattrap. “Why spider-bot so mad? Not like Wazzzzpinator?”

          “Good guess,” said Rattrap, “but she’s, ah, she’s goin’ through a bit of a rough patch right now.”

          Waspinator hung his head a little, wringing his hands together in front of him. “Wazzzzpinator know how she feel.”

          Cheetor shook his head contritely. “No, I’m pretty sure you don’t,” he said sincerely, before strategically changing the subject. “I’m worried about Optimus. He hasn’t checked in since he took off. I hope he’s doing all right up there.” None of them noticed the dark, ominous shape following soundlessly from on-high. If they had, they might have realised they were about to have far worse problems of their own.


	2. Do the Evolution (2)

**Do the Evolution (2)**

* * *

* * *

 

**IV.**

 

“Thrust, status report.”

          Megatron listened impatiently for a response, any response. None came. Either his chief of police was temporarily offline, or he had run into difficulties. “Where is that imbecilic gas-guzzler?” he grumbled, and started searching through his myriad security feeds. Nothing untoward in Iacon Central or the pavilion surrounding the former capitol, the airspace around the Decagon was clear, and the ancient killing fields of Jan-Ja were, as ever, undisturbed. His ability to scan the sub-levels was extremely limited, but his sensors assured him there was no current activity that told of Thrust’s typical spray-and-pray tactics.

          On a hunch, he tapped into the array near Quadrant Epsilon, the district which had previously hosted the primary cluster of detention banks and was now the locus of a massive urban renewal project. _There!_ He easily recognised the ugly half-Maximal, half-Autobot frame of Optimal Optimus in his aerial configuration. He could hardly believe how he had once desired the power of such a grotesque and inefficient throwback to the age before the Great Upgrade. No amount of strength was worth such a loss of pride and integrity.

          And there, dangling off the attack carrier’s undercarriage like a worm on a hook was his missing operative. Megatron slowly put his palm over his face and muffled a growl, and once that was out of his system, he opened a direct line to the city’s defence hub.

          “Activate anti-aircraft ordnance!” he ordered. “Grid reference: Furman, target: priority-one!”

          “Warning,” replied the citadel’s interface, “likelihood of damaging unit Thrust is—”

          “Irrelevant!” Megatron interrupted.

          “Acknowledged,” replied the interface. “Autoguns online.”

          With that out of the way, he switched one of his smaller monitors over to another channel, and proceeded to watch the realtime video footage being transmitted directly _via_ his airborne agent’s cortical uplink. What he beheld immediately improved his mood.

          “I think Thrust could stand to learn a lot from watching you,” he said to nobody in particular. “Well done, Spy Streak! Continue operating in pursuit mode, find out where the Maximals are going, and then destroy them!”

 

* * *

 

**V.**

 

The view from above Iacon was spectacular to behold. Golden towers corkscrewed into the atmosphere, filling the night with their twinkling halogen beams. Weather control stations, communication relays, and viewing platforms spun gently in low orbit on gravitational elevators, as clouds drifted softly by like streams of churning seafoam. This high up, the quiet of the great metropolis was tranquil, devoid of the apprehensive dread that ruled on the ground. Optimus Primal, unfortunately, had no time to appreciate the scenery with a Vehicon clambering over his fuselage.

          “You don’t get rid of me that easy, Gigantor,” Thrust sneered, straddling Optimus’s topside gun battery. “I’m the best there is at what I do, and what I do is cage Maxie troublemakers like you!”

          “If you’re really the best, Thrust,” said Optimus, “then let’s see you prove it!” He went into an aileron roll, and for the second time that day, Thrust felt the distinct, gut-wrenching sensation of his feet being suspended in mid-air. With one claw still in grapnel mode wrapped around his opponent, Thrust peeled back the outer panels of his free arm, revealing the ion blaster hidden inside. He fired a couple of shots into Optimus’s armoured hide, eliciting a pained groan from the enormous Maximal.

          “Here’s a tip, Primal,” said the Vehicon snidely. “The other thing I’m best at is dirty fighting! Still think you can ‘take care of business’ by yourself? ’Cause from where I’m standing, it sure don’t look good for you!”

          Optimus made no comeback this time. Better to let his actions answer his adversary’s insults. He scanned the area, searching for any advantage. The domed rooftops of several tall buildings were unfurling, and urban defence turrets sprouted from them. _Perfect!_ Optimus twisted onto his side, exposing Thrust to an explosive barrage. He heard Thrust yelling and swearing oaths as his chassis was perforated. A blast shattered the grapnel-chain. Thrust scrabbled desperately for purchase, but now being short one limb, he instead went tumbling towards _metallum firma_ , trailing pieces of his broken shell all the way. A particularly brutal impact separated him from his legs.

          “That’s one problem dealt with,” said Optimus. “Too bad the other one’s a lot bigger!” The autoguns were all turning on him now, and at his current altitude he had nowhere to hide. Another wave of bolts detonated along his wings and hull. Silver-sharp pain cut through his tail section as one of his stabilisers snapped free. He rotated his own laser-guided guns and returned fire. Two parallel turrets vanished in a column of plasma flames. It was enough of an opening for him to turn his nose section downwards. He swooped through the green smoke, then swerved around the next bend, using the sequential structures for cover as he descended.

          He touched down behind what used to be the district administrative offices and transformed to beast mode.

          “Computer, damage report,” he said.

          “Within safe parameters, but recommend remaining in beast mode until internal repair cycle is complete,” replied the modulated voice inside his head.

          Optimus grunted. “That’s just prime. Guess I’m walking home. Hope the others are all right.” There was a rush of afterburners overhead. Optimus glanced up, and saw a squadron of aerial combat drones flying in V-formation. He pressed himself up against the wall behind him until the sound of them faded into the distance. He breathed a sigh of relief, and checked his comm. link. “Optimus to anyone. Do you read?”

          There was a crackle of static, then the voice of Rattrap answered him, “Good to hear from you, Boss Monkey. Take it you got fender-face well in hand?”

          “Let’s say he split,” said Optimus. “How are you and the others doing?”

          “We’re on our way home now, uh, includin’ the new probie. So when should we expect you for oil an’ banana cookies?”

          “I need time to complete repairs. I’ll catch up with you when I’m able. Until then you’re in charge, Rattrap. Optimus out.”

          He closed the channel, and sank into a comfortable seated position in the shadows. At the very least, he could let his regenerative systems do their job in peace for a while. He was still potentially in danger—Megatron’s drones patrolled almost every inch of the surface, after all—but for the moment he was better off on the ground than in the air, and he would be able to detect any approaching energy signatures. Signatures like the Predacon one his mental radar had just alerted him to. Optimus stood, though what he planned to do while stuck in his gorilla configuration was up for debate. He had diverted available power to expedite his recovery from his weapons systems, which were mostly restricted to his robot and vehicular forms anyway, leaving him with just his brute strength, considerable as it was. He braced himself, steel fangs bared.

          The new arrival materialised out of thin air. They wore a lightweight, shimmering garment with a large hood attached. Optimus was enough of a scientist to deduce a cloaking device when he saw one. That raised a question in the Maximal leader’s mind.

          “I saw you coming. Awful clumsy of you to let me peek through your shield like that. What’s the big idea?”

          “This cloak is a necessity, Optimus Primal,” replied the stranger in a raspy voice, “but only in regards to Vehicons. I have no desire to make an enemy of you, so I allowed you a glimpse of me, to see how you would react. It’s good to see your battle instincts have not dulled.”

          “Glad I could impress you,” said Optimus impatiently. “Now, tell me what you want.”

          “Like you, I am working to remove Megatron from power,” the stranger said, “only I have been doing so from within, and I believe with far more actual success.”

          “So you say,” said Optimus, annoyed by the innuendo yet also unable to refute it, “but how do I know you’re not just blowing vapour trail?”

          “You desire proof?” the stranger sounded pleased. “Good. You’re smart as well. You do not trust words alone.” Optimus said nothing. “Very well, I shall present my evidence, and then perhaps, we may talk.” He reached beneath his shroud with spindly, many-jointed fingers, and fished out an object that made Optimus’s jaw fall open. It was a small, dark orb with the appearance of stone, marred by uneven rivers of silvery alloy, and pitted with faintly radiating red spots.

          “The alien Transmetal driver!” he exclaimed. “Where did you get that?”

          “The Predadon Alliance seized all the evidence to be used in Megatron’s trial, which was conducted by the Tripredacus Council,” the stranger explained. “Normally it would have been difficult to extradite such an extreme case, but the Maximal Elders entrusted them to clean up their own house, as it were. Once sentence was passed, the Council locked the device away to protect it from any allies Megatron might have among our people.”

          “If sentence was passed, what happened?” Optimus asked. “How did Megatron manage to take control of the Alliance?”

          “Our time is limited, and that information is not pertinent,” said the stranger curtly. “I have brought you the driver because I have good reason to believe you stand the best chance of unlocking its secrets. Your physiology presents a unique variant of the Transmetal bio-mechanical mutation. I dare say that, given the chance to study this ‘Optimal’ form of yours, our scientists could write volumes about what makes it tick. For that reason, the driver may respond to you in ways it would not to Megatron’s tampering.”

          Optimus gave an animalistic snort. “I’m not like Megatron. I won’t mess with things I don’t comprehend.”

          “Then you make for a poor scientist,” the stranger retorted. “That, however, is not the issue right now. Regardless of whether you use the driver or don’t, I believe you alone can keep it safe from Megatron. You mustn’t let him recapture it.” The hooded head jerked suddenly to one side. “I need to go. You would do well not to linger here much longer either, Optimus Primal. It isn’t safe. If all goes well, we will speak again.”

          A bluish pulse rippled across the length and breadth of the cloak, and the stranger seemed to blip out of existence. Optimus checked his radar. No energy signatures present. The mysterious Predacon was completely undetectable. Optimus disliked not knowing who his apparent benefactor was under. It meant too many dangerous variables, ones that could trip him up if neglected. Filing that concern away for later, he gazed thoughtfully at the artefact in his palm. Fooling around with alien technology had only ever brought him trouble, but he at least agreed it was best kept away from Megatron. He swiped open a compartment in his torso-plate and gently stowed it inside. The driver gave off a hazy, pleasant warmth that soothed the biological elements within him.

          He bitterly remembered the birth of the Transmetals. ‘Mutation,’ the stranger had called it, and it was not an inaccurate description. The quantum surge that tore across planet Earth had irrevocably changed him, his friends, and his enemies, into something no longer Cybertronian. Not in the complete sense, anyway. Megatron had developed an insatiable obsession with the infinite possibilities the event presented, and spent all every spare moment studying it, working on a way to generate a smaller, more controlled version, paving the way for still greater evolutions of power. It was uncertain where or when he had gotten his hands on the driver, but it seemed most logical that it was found in the ruins of one of the terrible superweapons that had almost expunged the world of life.

          The results of his meddling proved highly unstable, creating malformed things like the deranged clone of Dinobot, or blurred the line between robot and wild animal like it had done to Cheetor. Blackarachnia, giving in to her base Predacon instincts, had coveted this ‘Transmetal 2’ catalyst for herself, and almost extinguished her own Spark in the attempt. Optimus never did figure out how she came back from that ordeal.

          A rumble of tanks tore him from his navel-gazing. Optimus got up to take a look. He could make out the shape of yet more of those blasted drones, large models like the executioners at Trion Square, all in their low-riding combat formations. One turned its nub of a head towards him, and he quickly fell back. The bright crimson beam of its scanner flashed by inches from his nose, and when the drone was satisfied it had seen nothing, it turned away and continued up the street towards the memorial junction known as Impactor’s Last Stand.

          “Repair status,” he said.

          “Thirty-eight per-cent complete,” the onboard computer reported. Optimus flared his nostrils. That was a surprise, but not an unwelcome one. Maybe the damage had felt worse than it really was. He raised his arm, initially to take hold of his opposing shoulder while he checked the ding he had in his rotator, only to notice the dents he had been nursing in his forearm for the past couple of deca-cycles had been buffed out. He tried to recall when he had found the time. A sneaking suspicion crept into the back of his processor, and he deliberately tapped an oversized fingertip against his torso-plate. Perhaps his visitor had been right, and the driver was reacting to something in his Transmetal body.

          “Question is, what’s going to happen to me now?” he pondered aloud. The drone tanks were still moving by, favouring the main roadways. He went in the opposite direction, towards the alleys. Ensconced behind a pile of metal refuse at the back of a repair station, he found an entrance to one of the disused access shafts leading to the under-grid beneath Iacon’s streets. Maintenance tunnels that had been abandoned by civilised Cybertronians for decades, if not centuries. Judging by its size, this one had been built during the age before the Great Upgrade, meaning he could easily fit his enormous form down it. Using all four of his gorilla mode’s prehensile extremities, he quickly descended into the darkness below.

          The thing about cities, especially ones as old and as big as Iacon, however, is that their sheer complexity allows them to function like living entities in their own right. Entities with minds of their own, ones too big and too clever for even the wisest of men and machines to predict.

 

* * *

 

**VI.**

 

Cheetor had never been much of a city-slicker. Before signing on to the _Axalon_ exploration mission, and meeting the group that would become his closest friends for life, he had spent much of his existence in a minor agricultural settlement on Velocitron’s central landmass. The long solar-cycles spent nurturing his athletic skills and adventurous programming on that world’s vast, dusty expanses would have easily qualified him to represent his people at the Galactic Games, but far stronger was his fascination with the many forms and colours life could take on distant worlds, and his desire to see those worlds for himself.

          Before the victorious return to the home-world with Megatron in chains, Cheetor had only ever been to Cybertron to attend the Academy of Science and Technology. Like any student, he had gone on plenty of sojourns into Iacon’s entertainment promenades between projects, and he fondly remembered his visits to the Six Lasers amusement park. He had faced those tests of bravado that young mechanoids were challenged to undertake by their senior class-men, but even a night in the supposedly haunted Black Lodge could never have prepared him for what Rattrap revealed to him now.

          The sub-levels were like an entirely different world. Rust-covered walkways spanned an abyss that seemed to go on forever in three dimensions. Illumination was provided by light bars suspended from dizzying spider-webs of criss-crossing pipes. Every so often, they would pass the entrance to a conduit tube or access shaft that curved off in one of a dozen mindboggling directions. According to Rattrap, only those robots who spent their lives in the under-grid truly knew how to navigate it.

          “So how come you know it so well?” Blackarachnia asked. “Last I checked, you were an Academy ’bot, not a tunnel rat.”

          “Eh, my ’rental units were grid navvies,” Rattrap replied, shrugging. “It’s the next best thing. I practically got the schematics hardwired into my central processor.”

          “Izzzz walk going to take much longer?” whined Waspinator. “Wazzzzpinator’s legs getting tired!”

          “Keep your stripes on,” said Rattrap. “There’s a travel pod station at the next intersection. It’ll take us right where we need to go.”

          Cheetor suddenly stopped. Something was making the fur on the back of his neck stand to attention. More than that, he felt tell-tale stirrings in his Spark. He had always been prone to selective premonitions, but ever since attaining his Transmetal 2 body, his dream-like visions had been refined into a true danger sense. His ears perked. The sound he was hearing was much quieter than motorcycle engines, to the point that even his superb audio sensors had to strain their frequency filters, but it was there. A gentle, constant, electronic humming, too high-pitched to detect with normal equipment.

          “We’re being followed,” he said. “They’re using silent running.”

          “Another Vehicon?” asked Blackarachnia.

          Cheetor nodded. “Count on it.”

          “Oh, man!” Rattrap groaned. “It just don’t end!”

          The three Maximals and their Predacon companion all switched to robot mode and stood back-to-back, intently watching the darkness for any sign of their stalker. Cheetor’s finger hovered over the trigger of his grenade launcher, and he entered a state of meditative awareness. His hyper-attuned sensory array shuffled through the audio-visual spectrum at incalculable speed. When he found his target, it was less like viewing a sonar screen, and more like an instinctive compulsion. His arm moved almost by itself, wrenching up and to the left. Cheetor never bothered to turn his head before pulling the trigger. His gun spat out a blazing sphere of grapefruit pink flame that exploded in mid-air, coating the invisible target with radiation.

          A sleek, winged shape appeared over their heads. It drifted away, changing form and setting down on the walkway several feet back. The Vehicon before them possessed a stout torso and broad shoulders, though its legs were lithe and bandied and did not appear to match the rest of its frame. The head was angular and crested by a silver fin, with a smooth, featureless faceplate. A set of vicious, serrated pincers extended from its left arm.

          “Just one drone,” said Blackarachnia, “not exactly a problem.”

          “No, this one’s different,” said Cheetor, already reloading his weapon. “Stay sharp, ’bots.”

          The Vehicon’s optics flashed dangerously. To everyone’s surprise, Waspinator pushed his way past, whipping the pistol from his hip-holster.

          “What the slaggin’ fiery buckets are you doin’?” hissed Rattrap.

          “Wazzzzpinator not scared of big ugly Vehicon!” the Predacon declared. “Taste Wazzzzpinator’s sting!” He loosed a warbling, buzzing whine that was probably supposed to be a war-cry, and fired. The barbed, black sting shot from the barrel of the pistol, sailed through the air, and stuck itself harmlessly into the Vehicon’s left shoulder. The Vehicon tilted its head and cocked a steely eyebrow, as if silently asking if Waspinator was being serious, then moved with a burst of speed that seemed impossible. It appeared to simply transfer its mass from one spot to another, with no intervening motion. It closed its pincers around Waspinator’s head and lifted him off his feet. A series of sickening cracks were heard as the Predacon’s cranial housing strained under the pressure.

          “Wazzzzpinator take it back!” he whimpered. “Vehicon not ugly! Actually very handsome! And Wazzzzpinator so scared that hizzzz fluid link hazzzz sprung a leak!”

          If the Vehicon had a face, it would not be unreasonable to think it might have looked disgusted by that previous remark. Waspinator’s compound eyes perceived tiny changes in the electromagnetic spectrum, as particles of white hot light were pulled towards a single point in space, directly between the enormous pincers. It dawned on him then that he was staring directly into the heart of an energy weapon, but before he had the chance to slip into a full blown panic, it went off, consuming everything. The Maximals collectively winced as the burst carried Waspinator through the darkness and slammed him painfully into the side of a maintenance shaft, then straight through it, and away into the depthless gulf.

          The Vehicon’s had its back to her, giving Blackarachnia all the opportunity she needed. She bounded into the air on long, powerful legs, twirling into a graceful somersault. The Vehicon had barely turned around when she landed on its shoulders and closed her thighs around its neck. Cheetor and Rattrap looked at each other, then back at her, and audibly gulped. Golden talons extended from her wrists, and she began tearing at her prey’s metal hide. She opened a deep gash down one side of its face, causing an optic to sputter and short out, before it wrapped its huge pincers around her middle, ripped her free, and smashed her repeatedly against the walkway.

          Cheetor aimed his grenade launcher, but there was no way for him to fire without catching his teammate in the blast.

          “Rattrap, run interference!” he exclaimed.

          “I got just the t’ing right here, Spots,” said Rattrap. He reached under his armoured back unit and pulled out a blue, metal square with orange-and-black warning stripes along two sides. “Yo! Finhead! Got you a goin’ away present!” He tossed the device, which struck the enemy’s chest and magnetically affixed itself. Blue arcs of electrical energy snaked out and coursed through the Vehicon’s systems, forcing him to release Blackarachnia and stagger backwards, twitching like a galvanised frog.

          “I’ll see to Webs,” said Rattrap, “you keep him busy, kid!”

          “No problem, just watch me turn that tin can into a scratching post!” Cheetor raced towards the Vehicon, holstering his gun on his back in favour of extending his claws, which shone like polished obsidian even in the dim light of the under-grid. The equivalent of highly concentrated adrenaline surged through his fuel pumps, turning him into a furious whirlwind of razorblades. The Vehicon raised its pincer arm as a shield just in time to catch the claws, which scraped down the metal surface, belching up sparkling snatches of heat. Cheetor whaled at the shield, spilling electrical fireballs into the atmosphere, forcing the other mechanoid to maintain its defensive posture, until a wave of pain exploded through his abdominal region.

          He broke off the fight and attempted to find breathing room, but every servo fought against his will. His eyes bulged in their sockets as horrified realisation settled in. His opponent had managed to transfer Rattrap’s electro-charge to him, and fixed it in place with the sting fired from Waspinator’s gun. He could only guess how many important circuits had been torn as a result of this crude, yet evidently effective turnabout, and he could only watch helplessly, paralysed, as the other robot advanced on him.

          A blue, glowing tendril wrapped itself around the Vehicon’s neck and went taut, pulling him away from the prone feline. Blackarachnia had returned to beast mode and, in the tradition of the spitting spiders of Earth, launched a congealed blend of cyber-venom and energised silk from between her jaws. The Vehicon’s eyes flashed dangerously as a tug-of-war ensued. Rattrap levelled his blaster and fired two shots that exploded off the opposing Transformer’s shell.

          Its remaining optic shifted, narrowed, then it wrapped a fist around the tendril, ignoring the painful discharge, and gave an almighty yank while pivoting about on its heels. Blackarachnia was dragged off her eight feet, and spun through the air like an Olympian’s hammer, before crashing into Rattrap’s side, stunning them both. The blaster skittered away. Blackarachnia tried to stand, trembled, then collapsed on Rattrap’s chest.

          Just like that, the battle was over. In spite of all the advancements of their alien-augmented forms, the Maximals had stood no chance against Megatron’s deadly, mute agent.

          The Vehicon turned on Cheetor, picked him by the scruff of his neck, and dragged him over to the other two. It glanced thoughtfully at the now slack length of silk rope, and used it to tie its three fallen adversaries together. It then transformed to its airborne mode to begin the task of hauling them away to face justice.

          The Lord High Protector’s justice.

 

Elsewhere in the under-grid, Optimus Primal was making his way through access shaft 7-0-0-1-0-7, which went straight down for almost a mega-mile. He passed a multitude of tunnels during his descent that led onto the meandering maintenance levels, signifying there might have once been a lift before this section was decommissioned. Fortunately, his beast mode was designed for climbing, and his size meant the next improvised handhold was never too far from his reach. Unfortunately, however, there is a sorry fact about forgotten structures like these—the further in one goes, the less secure they tend to be. Past junction B-7, the results of those many years of neglect were at their most apparent.

          This part of the shaft was smooth, mostly void of useful protuberances, and devoid of light, necessitating Optimus activating his optic lamps. Looking around, he found a narrow ledge, probably meant for workers to alight on while they repaired any damage in the conduit relays behind the inner wall, but the moment he grasped it and settled his weight, he heard a stomach-lurching crack. A sizeable chunk of the ledge broke away in his paw. Optimus cried out, scrabbled for purchase, and found none. He transformed to his airborne mode, but the angle of his fall and the narrow width of his environment made it impossible to correct himself. He bounced off the rounded surface of the shaft several times, which forced him back to his previous configuration, and at long last, he hit the bottom, gave a groan, and lost consciousness.

          He could not have picked a worst place in which to leave himself vulnerable, for this forsaken length of catacombs had been laid claim to, by something so old it spat in the face of Cybertronian history. Worse still, it was also something that was very, very hungry.

 

* * *

 

**VII.**

 

_Head over heels, he spins gently through the universe, carried on some cosmic flow like a snowflake on the breeze. All about him are stars, moons, and planets that shine in countless, vaporous hues. They tumble and dance, rolling out from the boundless aether, hazy and translucent, before slowly collapsing into clouds of starlight. The sensation he feels towards each supernova is not one of urgency, however, but more akin to watching a firework display in the Helix Gardens of New Praxus. Exhilarating, yet at peace._

_He sees the shimmering blue and green of Earth. Millions of years of history are painted in its nebulous contrails. Others he recognises from datatrax he studied at the Academy, only here they far outstrip mere holographic representations. Arid, mountainous Nebulos, and the warm jungles of Eukaris, even misshapen Thrull and dark, lifeless Chaar are made beautiful colours on a vast, galactic palette. There are still more he does not know, but finds to be wonderful. Bodies that glow with primeval, elemental fury. Stone and ice and boiling magma, and more besides._

_Then the light vanishes, as an unspeakably huge mass of shadow and fire careens straight towards him. A bloody red seam opens down its surface, as thin as a molecule, until it widens in a jagged pattern that reminds him of the monstrous Unicron. Its inferno enfolds him, and he feels the briefest, all-consuming sting of animalistic terror. The term ‘beast’ has been bandied about much during his life, but he knows that it applies here, to this thing, more than it ever has before. It is malevolent, yet void of meaning, the truest definition of evil._

_The darkness crumbles, and he emerges into light. Now he is gliding through an atmosphere he recognises intimately—Cybertron! He falls through the atmosphere, until he is sweeping across cities of silver, lakes of acid, oceans of mercury. He is drawn towards the Council Citadel, and finally, his momentum dissipates, and he lands atop its tallest spire. He knows that something is trying to communicate, that they are showing him these things for a reason. He calls out, he questions. At first, there is nothing—then, he hears his name. A million voices, united as one, calling him, commanding him._

_The world shatters like a broken mirror, countless fragments dropping into a white, blinding void. Above his head is a thing as big as the universe. Golden mechanisms that defy understanding encircle a pulsating Spark. Small offshoots drift from it, orbit, and then fly away like errant comets. He knows that he is within the Matrix, and this before him is the Well of All Sparks. Each offshoot is a new Transformer, about to be born, except none are returning to complete the cycle of birth, death, and rebirth. The Well is growing steadily smaller, drying up, losing its cohesion. He knows that this could mean the end of his race, his world. He demands why he is being made to witness this, and what must be done to stop it._

_The Well pulls its light inwards, condenses it, until it rests neatly in his palm. It subsides, and he now holds the Transmetal driver. The pits dotting its surface have changed to a gentle blue. It reaches out with immaterial tendrils that entwine about his arm, then sink through his hide. The blue spreads through his fuel pumps, coats his servos, energises his wiring. It feels natural. Liberating. It fills him and grants him strength and clarity. He glimpses probability, the way it shifts between realities. One world is coming to its end, and a new one is on the cusp of beginning. He is transcending, changing. Transforming._

_Someone else is standing with him. A face he knows. Cheetor! He’s in pain! The young mechanoid shouts. At first, he does not hear the words. He concentrates. The universe turns to mech-fluid. The interference starts to clear up._

_“Bigbot, wake up!”_

 

‘Bigbot’ awoke with a sharp gasp. He jerked up and looked around frantically. His surroundings were cavernous enough for him to move about without the restriction of the decrepit access shaft. He wondered just how long he had fallen before blacking out, and speaking of that, just what in the universe was that dream all about? The advantage to a central processor is that it records all activity, so there is less risk of forgetting one’s dreams, as often occurs with the biological brain. Optimus remembered the entire, surreal sequence.

          He was certain that the great ball of light he witnessed was indeed nothing less than the Well of All Sparks, the source of Transformer life, and a vital component of the Matrix, but why had it been falling apart? The possibility sent a finger of ice up his spinal column. What gruesome fate would await all those extinguished Sparks if their other-dimensional source ceased to be? _Come on, Optimus, you’re a scientist,_ he told himself, _you don’t deal in ‘Primus’s mysterious ways.’ There’s an equation to it. A mathematical conundrum, just like they used to test you with at the Academy. All you need to do is fill in the blanks._ He was no Rattrap, certainly, but he understood that the key to cracking the truth behind any enigma was to identify what each sign represented, and this—dream? Nightmare? Vision of some future catastrophe?—would be no different.

          Most immediately worrying had been the sight of Cheetor. Aside from the obvious, that his face had been contorted in pain, it got Optimus thinking about the Beast Wars again. Specifically, the fact that his young friend had confessed to strange dreams several times during their adventures on prehistoric Earth. Rhinox believed he possessed a gift. Seers had existed on Cybertron before, albeit not for a long time. The last recorded one was the so-called Mistress of Flame, who ruled over a cult dedicated to the great artificer Solus Prime on a distant, dying moon. Unfortunately, Cheetor had never quite gotten the hang of interpreting what he saw while in sleep mode. He was too blunt at the best of times, and too abstract at the worst. Absurd, even. Still, he did have more overall practise, and Optimus considered the notion that Cheetor had been trying to reach him through a shared out-of-body experience. The Transmetal 2 upgrade had brought more than its fair share of oddities, after all.

          Before he could dedicate time to pontificating any further on that, however, he needed to take stock of his new environment. He could not discern where exactly he had come in from, so either the shaft was a long way up, or he had been moved. Regardless, going back up would just return him to the Vehicon-populated surface. He glanced down at the grated floor beneath him. The plates were installed over a pulsating mass of cables, connectors, and crystalline energy relays. As he journeyed deeper, he noted that the material of the caverns seemed mismatched, as if it had been replaced over and over, and rather haphazardly at that. There was evidence of rushed patch-jobs and inferior materials, not to mention signs of rust, decay, chemical damage, and most unsettling of all, bite-marks.

          If he had to make a reasonably educated guess, this sector had last been occupied during the energy crisis that had prompted his ancestors to flee their world in search of new resources millions of years ago, the event that began the long association between Transformers and Earthlings. It amazed him to be in such an ancient place. He had always thought of himself as a student of history, and that component of him felt downright honoured. He would love nothing more to comb through and document it for posterity, but for the present it was the soldier in him who took precedence. He had to find a way back to the others, to the travel pod station. He watched the flashes of energy from the crystal relay to determine direction, then adjusted himself accordingly.

          By the time he found the huge double-doors, he had lost all sense of time. He checked his onboard chronometer, but only received an error message, which meant either it had been damaged in the fall, or something about the electromagnetic spectrum in this place was up. Frankly, Optimus thought either was very possible. The doors were positioned at the end of a walkway, which was suspended high above a pit full of wriggling, squirming shapes the colour of fish flesh—morphobots, a species of ravenous plant that subsisted exclusively on mechanical life. Some of them twisted their bulbs investigatively, flexing their five-point jaws at the air. They emitted a sickly, nickel smell that turned Optimus’s stomach. Keeping his optics pointed forward and his movements slow and deliberate, so as to avoid setting off their motion sensors, he crossed the walkway.

          The double-doors were twice as tall as he was, and gave off an air of austere ceremony. They were engraved with images of alien beasts, all looking in reverence towards the sky. Optimus could not see a handle, so he rested his paws against the door to push them, and his own alarm gave him pause. He had expected to see huge, orange hands, with hinged fingers each as long and broad as a drainpipe. Instead, he saw thickly muscled appendages, covered in black fur. Below the wrists and along the forearms flowed patches of crystalline, semi-transparent plating, through which he could see shifting wires entwined around blue, silicon tissue. The digits were much the same, while the base knuckles were constructed from reinforced steel and jutted out slightly to form spikes.

          “Computer, run diagnostic,” he said. “What’s happened to me?”

          “Transmetal components have been upgraded,” the electronic voice inside his head replied. “Biological components have also been significantly augmented.”

          “Since when?”

          “Modifications applied during unexpected standby period.”

          “It happened while I was unconscious, after I fell through the shaft. Is this anything like Megatron’s Transmetal 2 experiments? Use Cheetor for comparison.”

          “Known Transmetal 2 parameters have been exceeded.”

          A thought occurred to Optimus. “What about the Transmetal driver?”

          “Transmetal driver is no longer present. Registering traces of object’s energy signature within superstructure.”

          “Looks like that ’bot in the hood knew more than he was letting on. Big surprise. Computer, scan all systems and update primary datatrax,” he said. “I want to know everything this body can do.”

          He returned his attention to the big double-doors, and pushed them open.


End file.
